


Echo

by nice_girls_play



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels, Crossover, M/M, Multi, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-12
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nice_girls_play/pseuds/nice_girls_play
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative Season 6. Sam Winchester is back from Hell and has unfinished business with a certain demon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echo

“You lied to us, Crowley.”

The words didn’t surprise him. The hulking shadow suddenly appearing in the corner of his sitting room didn’t either. He’d gotten used to unwanted visitors invading his home over the centuries. At least with demons and other denizens of Hell, the intrusion was mostly limited to the radio, stereo, lap top audio, iPhone and other evolving electronic systems, all of which he could liberate of its batteries or power cord when he wanted a bit of privacy.

Human beings, of course, were another matter. At this point, he wasn’t even sure a bucket of holy water on top of the door *wouldn’t* have kept Sam Winchester at bay, but it was too late to find out.

“About what?” A.J. Crowley swirled the cognac in his glass anti-clockwise.

“About not being an angel.” The shadow of the lost hunter loomed closer, moving along the wall without the aid of footsteps. Crowley’s fingers tightened along the rim of the glass.

“Technically, I didn’t. It was an old job. I just left it off my resume.”

“Old job,” he said flatly. Crowley’s ears perked, trying to place the direction of the voice. “Did Hell have a better pension plan?”

Crowley toed the floor, spinning his chair to face the taller man, who’d found a convenient bit of shadow to further hide in.

“It didn’t have much of anything really. It didn’t exist at the time.”

“Yet you fell all the same.”

Crowley raised his drink in gesture.

“*Lucifer* fell. Some of us got pulled down in the undertow. These things happen. And if you’re here about the hunter’s soul, I *gave that back* to him. Even let him keep our little caveat. So you can’t have any personal quarrel with me.”

Not that there was much he could do about it if he did. Bobby had been grateful, yet threatening. The elder Winchester had been much the same. With any luck, the younger Winchester had managed to procure his magic knife or something equally dangerous and he’d be wiped from existence rather than sent back to Hell. Something told him he wouldn’t muster another discorporation. Cashing in a contract was an offense in itself, halting two Apocalypses was two too many. And, of course, Lucifer had ample reason to be cranky.

If he was still down there.

 _“HE’S NOT HERE TO KILL YOU, CROWLEY.”_

The cognac stilled in the glass.

That voice… had not sounded like Sam Winchester.

“I’m here to reward you.”

That did. And now the tall man stepped forward into the light, face drawn into a softer, far fonder expression than he could hope to expect from the doomed demon hunter.

 _“IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME, MY DEAR.”_

The glass of cognac crashed to the floor as Crowley bolted up from his chair.

\--

Lilith was persuasive. It had been the secret to her success. She was also -- by both human and infernal definitions -- a very capable strategist. Her gift was in pushing those under her charge to the action she wanted by making it sound like the outcome was in their best interest.

Crowley could never fault Sam Winchester for falling for it. He'd known enough for himself to accept the promotion she offered him without argument, even when it meant leaving Europe for the first time in a thousand years. Even when the demands of his new assignments meant limiting his communication with a certain angel.

For the first time in fifty years, he'd gone more than two days without speaking to Aziraphale. It was more difficult than he'd ever imagined it would be. They'd allowed entire centuries to elapse before. A decade of twice-weekly telephone conversations dwindled down to the occasional e-mail correspondence (once Aziraphale mastered a computer) as more and more souls went into contract and Lilith found more and more reasons to keep him busy.

He didn't have much time left to panic when his last letter went unanswered. Or when Anathema and Adam Young both called to tell him the bookshop was empty and looked like it had been torched (again). He found the time to anyway.

\--

In their favored corporeal forms, Crowley and Aziraphale were less than half an inch apart in height. The demon made up the new difference by knocking the angel's host body to the floor and clambering on top. Their lips slid together firmly, off-set by Aziraphale's breathless laughter and Crowley's urgent need to devour every inch of his mouth.

 _“DID YOU MISS ME, THEN?”_

“Where were you? I looked everywhere. I even phoned Zurich. Do you have any idea how tedious Swiss operators are?”

 _“WE'RE GOING TO RUIN YOUR CARPET.”_

"It's already full of cognac. Where've you been?" His fingers tore at the buttons on the hunter's plaid outer shirt. His face buried in the juncture between the too-thick neck and the too-broad sternum, breathing in the smell of sweat and brimstone.

 _“COULD...”_

"What, angel?"

 _"COULD YOU... ASK AGAIN IN A FEW HOURS?”_

Crowley grinned as his hands tore at the hem of the angel's cotton t-shirt.

\--

"So where were you?" he asked again three hours later. They were still lying on the soaked rug, naked and wrapped in a large afghan Aziraphale managed to conjure.

 _"I THINK YOU KNOW."_

"What in the d... What in the blazes were you doing there?"

 _"RESCUE MISSION."_

Crowley shook his head. There'd only ever been one rescue mission into Hell and one angel named as Dean Winchester's rescuer.

"What'd they do? Leave you behind?"

There was a long pause and he lifted his face from the warm shoulder to stare into glassy should-be-blue eyes resolutely focused on the ceiling.

 _"I HATE TO MAKE ASSUMPTIONS,"_ Aziraphale's gentle whisper was strange framed by the hunter's lips. The low volume of it -- turned down to a slow, halted purr -- was even stranger. _"BUT MY DEMONIC HOST HAD A FEW IDEAS.”_

The word 'swap' slammed into his brain and Crowley fought the urge to reach across the heavenly ether and break somebody's neck. The idea was infuriatingly logical: of course an archangel determined to start an apocalypse would start by locking up the angel who'd helped stop the last one. And if Hell had a torture chamber that was about to have a surprise vacancy anyway, well... that was just convenient now, wasn't it?

"Castiel,” he said, the disgust plain in his voice. The hunter's eyes turned to look at him.

 _"WAS WORKING UNDER ORDERS. FROM A SUPERIOR I'VE BEEN TOLD IS DISPATCHED,”_ He could hear the Winchester boy's fury under the words and, just under that, the steadfast tone that had once made the angel the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

 _“THERE'LL BE NO RETRIBUTION, CROWLEY. PROMISE ME."_

The demon nodded slowly.

Not violent retribution, no. But the angel would never have a clean trench coat again. Or a cup of strong coffee. Or eggs that weren't runny and didn't need a metric ton of salt. When he couldn't fly, he'd have to wait for buses that never came and cellphone signals that were always just out of reach. Every book he picked up, every newspaper he read would leave him with half a dozen papercuts on both hands. If Crowley had to call in every favor with every cupid, fae, wood sprite, malevolent motel owner and bored fast-food worker from here to Singapore, he'd ensure that Castiel knew no true peace for the rest of his time on Earth.

He didn't say so aloud. He hadn't forgotten that, though he was letting Aziraphale have the reins for the moment, Sam was still in there somewhere and likely listening.

Instead, he leaned in to press his lips against the too-tan shoulder, hand moving southward underneath the blanket.

 _"OH, DON'T THINK YOU'RE GOING TO DISTRACT ME THAT WAY..OH.."_

The familiar outrage soaked in the hunter's baritone made Crowley smile.

\--

“How much time do we have?” They still hadn't made it up off the carpet when he asked two hours later. He'd finally conjured (and subsequently replenished) some tea and raspberry scones on something that vaguely resembled Aziraphale's china.

The angel's chewing slowed. He brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth.

“A day? A few hours?”

Several moments passed before he finally answered

 _“LUCIFER LEFT A BIT OF A MESS.”_ He said it in such a way, the demon knew he didn't mean externally. _“NOT QUITE SO MUCH AS HE PLANNED, I'M SURE, BUT ENOUGH. I'M TRYING TO… TIDY UP A LITTLE. HELP WHERE I COULDN'T BEFORE.”_

Here was the angel he'd known for centuries: the guilt at getting caught, at enduring two and a half centuries of torture in Hell when he could have been up here trying to stop the world from ending, to prevent the cruelty being visited upon humanity by his own brothers and sisters. He'd watched Aziraphale scream as London burned, weep silently as he walked his way through the pile of half a million bodies on the Somme, never once forgetting the souls he'd saved, but always overwhelmed by those he hadn't.

He'd guided the young hunter out of Hell. That much Crowley had guessed. If you didn't know the way, Hell was very, very hard to navigate your way out of. It was an even trade for his liberation. And yet Aziraphale had remained. Why?

“Has he contacted his brother, yet?”

The plate of scones refilled again – blueberry this time. The angel inhaled two followed by a long swallow of tea.

“I take it he’s reluctant,” Crowley blinked slowly, feeling his reptilian eyes blink just behind his human lenses (another of Lilith’s inspirations: humans were more likely to forfeit their souls to someone who looked like them ).

 _“HE’S…”_ Aziraphale struggled with the words. Crowley wondered how much of that was the hunter attempting to restrain him from saying them. _“AFRAID. WE WERE THERE FOR SOME TIME, MY DEAR. I DIDN’T HAVE MY BODY BY THE TIME HE FOUND ME…”_

Here was something else he’d guessed: if Aziraphale had been incorporeal the whole time, it would have taken centuries for them to walk out of Hell. The youngest Winchester had probably seen more of the place than Daddy and big brother combined. Too much time in hell turned drove some people insane. It turned some human beings into demons.

Of course, Sam Winchester didn’t taste demonic. Crowley licked his neck just to be sure, relishing Aziraphale’s soft giggle and breathless rebuff.

“So, how much time are we talking about? How long before you phone up Adam and have him make a man of you again?”

The angel seemed poised to stall again. Crowley moved the cup and saucers out of reach. He sighed – the same irritated sigh he gave whenever the demon bent the spine on one of his books or emptied a couple of Bordeuxs without offering him even a sip. It would have looked funny, if it hadn’t been followed by the same faraway stare he’d seen earlier. Not looking at Crowley or the room, or even the ceiling. Just staring ahead into nothingness.

 _“A PERSON CAN ONLY TAKE SO MUCH ALONE. HE WANTS TO RETURN TO BEING A HUNTER. HE WANTS TO HELP OTHERS. THAT’S SOMETHING.”_

It was nothing as far as Crowley was concerned. Nothing if was going to keep Aziraphale locked up inside him indefinitely, holding his hand while he tried to stand on his own two feet.

“Is it worth your life?”

 _“HE GAVE ME BACK MY LIFE.”_

\--

The sunrise was shining in through the window – or it would have been if someone hadn’t drawn the drapes and the frames bricked up with salt-laden mortar. It was another little security trick Crowley had picked up in the last few years, one he could materialize and de-materialize at his own will, never having to touch it.

There was no warm glow as they stood to dress, clearing the plates and the crumbs from the carpet with a few mutual waves of their hands.

“You have a bookshop waiting for you, you know.”

The angel nodded, drawing the crumpled and torn flannel shirt back on over his t-shirt. The tears repaired themselves as he began to do up the buttons.

“You also may want to give Madame Shadwell a call – she’s been getting some rather disturbing visions from the Other Side.”

 _“ACTUAL VISIONS?”_

“Nothing I could discern,” he let a pause elapse. “And nothing I directly caused.”

Actually, Madame Tracy hadn’t picked up anything more on demonic or angelic frequencies than she had in all the years she’d been table-tapping. But the pronouncement seemed to give his old friend a horrified pause that made the whole construct of the lie worth it.

 _“CROWLEY…”_

He took the taller man’s shoulders in his hands, drawing him close. When the tousled head fell to his shoulder, he knew he had him.

“One more thing,” he said. “If I may, I’d like a word with your host.”

The angel drew back and stared at him. That look in green eyes was hard to get used to. He wondered if his own more human eyes were equally difficult for Aziraphale.

“I need to thank him.”

 _“REMEMBER YOUR MANNERS, MY LOVE…”_

“When do I not?”

He waited, watching those green eyes for the shift just behind them. He watched as the hunter’s spine unfolded just a little, drawing him up to his full height. Watched as the lines at the corner of his mouth smoothed out and tightened, when he knew he was dealing with the demon hunter alone.

“’Don’t believe I’m sincere?”

Sam Winchester's expression didn't change. Crowley’s hands stayed on his shoulders.

“Well, I am. You didn't believe I wanted to save the world either. Now you know one of the reasons why I did.” His hands moved down the strong arms, hands hovering near the hunter's waist and still his expression didn't change. He was like one of those statues in the Enlightenment Room at the British Museum (minus the strategic “wear-and-tear” carried out by various Puritans and fanatics over the years).

“I don't need to tell you there's no such thing as destiny,” he reached into his jacket, pulling out a small fob watch. “There's only time and what we decide to do with it. I'll trust you not to take up any more of Aziraphale's.”

He dropped the watch into the taller man's hand.

\--

The watch was in the mud on the side of the road within the first half hour. Crowley could tell from the GPS tracker he'd placed inside it. The charmed coin he'd placed inside Sam's pocket was also in the dirt a few miles further on.

He did however have, from that same pocket, the bit of paper with a handwritten address on it, several quarters, and – yes, there it was! -- the polished amulet still looped on its weathered cord.

He dropped the latter into a postal envelope, copying the address ( _Cicero, IN..._ ) on the front in dark ink. It was a risk – there was always a chance the lady of the house would open the package first. But then again, things had a way of being inevitable – and ineffable – soulmates in particular. Gay, incestuous sibling soulmates most of all.

Crowley pulled out his phone, thumbing the speed dial.

“Adam? It's Crowley. Tell me, have you ever wanted to visit Indiana?”


End file.
